


Remedial

by KellerProcess



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: BPD junkrat, Canon Disabled Character, M/M, Widowtracer is more just mentioned here than depicted, also Junkrat is functionally illiterate, and doesn't know it, and gaming, and sci-fi sex toys from spaaaaaace, and sex toys from spaaaaace, because growing up in an irradiated hellscape, but I promise there are a LOT of funny bits!, frank discussions of BDSM, frank discussions of mental illness, junkrat has borderline personality disorder, lots and lots of emotional ups and downs, sorry Widowtracer fans but you'll definitely get fic of them from me!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-16 03:59:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7251079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KellerProcess/pseuds/KellerProcess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Though everyone assumes otherwise just from the way he behaves, Junkrat is not just vanilla, but pretty sexually inexperienced. When he finds Roadhog's BDSM porn stash, he sets out on a quest to learn exactly what those letters mean. Good thing he has a lot of friends to go to for advice...</p><p>Or, given that this IS Overwatch we're talking about, maybe not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Roadhog had to keep his pocky stash around here somewhere, but so far, Junkrat had only found disappointments under the bed in their part of Overwatch’s new facility—“disappointments,” in this case, being candy wrappers, empty soda cans, a chipped coffee mug, and fucking empty boxes of rainbow pocky.

Crikey, it was like Hog was trying to eat a goddamn Pride float. And what was up with the fella’s obsession with that talking tuber? Nobody needed fifty Pachimari plushies, especially if he was just gonna hoard them under the bed like a yobbo. 

“Definitely _not_ kawaii,” Junkrat groused as he shoved another of the grinning, puke-pink things out of his way. “Who makes toys out of something they made to advertise cars anyw—ahh, paydirt!”

He yanked the lockbox out with a grunt, not caring that it screeched along the hardwood floor. Hog was out training tonight, probably with Reinhardt or Pharah or someone else who wouldn’t die if he punched them in the chest, and he wouldn’t be back for hours.

Golden bloody opportunity for some primo snacking.

“Roight,” Junkrat mused as he ran his hands over the box, “let me see now.” 

The lockbox was a mighty big thing, as long as Junkrat’s arm and just about as wide as his prosthetic leg— _Hog must be hiding the motherload of pockey in here._ It was also fastened securely with a nasty-looking cam lock.

“Oh, Hog,” Junkrat giggled as he set to work. “Shoulda known this wouldn’t keep me out but for a few seconds, darl.”

A little fiddling and twiddling and one or two good smacks just because and the lock sprung open.

“Mhh,” Junkrat purred as he lifted the lid. “Shoulda used a little explodey. I like my chocolate extra crisp—eh? There’s no pocky in here.” Squinting, he rattled the box and gave it the dirtiest look he could. “You havin’ me on, box? Or—no, hang on!” He giggled as he ran his hands through the stacks and stacks of magazines. “Ohhh, that’s clever, big fella. Hidin’ the lollies under…uh….”

Why was the bloke on the cover of this magazine licking some yobbo’s boot?

“ _Bound and Gagged_ ,” Jamie read. “‘The only magazine for—’”

He didn’t recognize the word after that, and sounding it out like Tracer told him wasn’t working. He was stuck, and when that happened, there was no going on to figure out things from…construct, convex, whatever she’d called it. Besides, he had better things to worry about now. 

Like why the fuck a box that should have been filled with pocky had a stack of spank mags all featuring…people. People in blindfolds and bondage kissing and getting stepped on by boots. In slings and swings getting switched and whipped. In latex and leather and PVC and everything else black and tight.  
People who weren’t him.

 _See?_ that nasty little voice hissed in his ears. _Told you. I always tell you. Who’d want an ugly, fucked-up—?_  
Jamie dropped the lid and slammed his foot into the box. The kick was clumsy and the thing went wide, denting both it and bedframe with _thunk_ loud and hard enough to rattle the nightstand.

Junkrat took a deep, shuddering breath and laughed. And laughed. And laughed. Cuz what else was there to do, right? 

“So your best mate and—and—it’s stupid, isn’t it?” Jamie asked one of the genki little Pachimari. “So he wants to polish his knob to some bangaroo with blokes and sheilas in leather and chaps. You’re gonna have a whinge about that? Really now?”

_After all he puts up with from you, you sooky bastard...._

“It’s just pictures. Hell, he’s not even using the Internet. Like some prehistoric—who gets _magazines_ anymore?” he continued to plead his case as the radish looked on. “Who doesn’t look at other people, right?

_I don’t…._

_Uh-huh. You’re also fucked in the head, Jamie. No one’s like that at twenty-five._

Junkrat clenched his fists. “I know it shouldn’t matter,” he explained. “ _I know._ But…. It’s like, me head says stupid shit all the time, and me heart makes it all make sense, except what it says is even stupider, really. Only this time I know me head’s talkin’ sense and I know me heart’s talkin’ shit, but that’s not enough for me to believe my thoughts.”  
He ran his hand through his patchy, singed hair and yanked. And yanked. And laughed so it wouldn’t turn into a scream.

“I hate having feelings,” he sighed as he poked the plushie in its cute little smile. “Let’s trade places, mate, yeah? You can be me, and I can be you. You can sort through this whole mess and I’ll be the bludger what lies about looking cute. Good job, that. If you can get it.”

The radish continued to smile at him.

“Oh, to hell with you,” Junkrat growled as he tossed it across the room. “Lot of help you are.”

He took a deep breath.

So. Hog wanted some freaky shit in bed, then?

Fine. Time to stop being a wowser and learn a thing or two about a thing or two.

After all, he’d taught himself all about blowing up whatever needed blowing up—and a few hundred things that probably didn’t, according to Winston. 

How hard could learning about a little kinky slap and tickle be?


	2. Chapter 2

_“Aaaaargh! Me tea and crumpets!”_

_“You’ve been pwned! D.Va style!”_

D.Va leaped out of her candy-cotton-pink mecha, twirled, and gave a victory sign before handspringing backward and making a perfect superhero-style landing on top of her machine, where she sat like a supermodel and ran a hand through her long, flowing hair.   
Meanwhile, Junkrat lay on the ground, stupefied and possibly dead.

“Oh fuck off,” the real Junkrat muttered, tossing his controller onto the pink-and-purple carpet.

The real D.Va gave him the most shit-eating grin that ever shitted and held out her hand.

“No,” Junkrat said, folding his arms over his chest. “Piss off with that.”

D.Va’s smile grew pointier and scrunchier as she wiggled her fingers.

Sighing, Jamie dug into a pocket of his sweatpants and removed a twenty euro note, which he slapped into her hand.

“Oi,” he said, not quite releasing it yet as D.Va moved to put it in the pocket of her pink hoodie. “Only if you promise you’ll bribe the yobbos that made this piece of shit game into remaking it and making me Australian this time. I mean”—he gestured at the TV, which now displayed a menu of Overwatch’s finest—“am I a posh Pom? Am I Cockney? I just don’t know! Maybe a better title too,” he mused. “What kinda name is _Fighters: Overwatch Ultimate Melee 2000_? Is this the twentieth century? And why do I look like the latest boy band reject?” He wasn’t exaggerating either, he thought with a snort. The “Junkrat” the suits had come up with had the same amber eyes, but his red hair—red!—was entirely too thick, his proportions to beefy, and his face too square and fucking handsome in that rich-boy, shitfuck way. If Jamie had run into him in the street, he would have detonated the wank for existing.

“You should’ve looked at the models,” D.Va chirped in that singsong “told you so” voice that gave his middle finger a mind of its own. 

This time was no exception.

“What?” Hana said, digging a spider-boned hand into the bowl of popcorn between them as she put the note away in her hoodie. “You should have!”

“Why?” Jamie pouted.

“Because you shouldn’t sign documents that say ‘your use of my likeness is awesome’ if you don’t even know what that likeness looks like!”

“Pbbbb,” Jamie dismissed that with a wave of his mechanical hand before jamming it into the bowl too. “They gave me the money. Who has the time for anything else?”

“I’d say something about not complaining if you don’t vote, but you wouldn’t know about that, huh?”

“Nope,” Junkrat sang out before shoving a handful of popcorn into his mouth. “And anyways, words and me?” He shook his head as he chewed. “Not sure I like them when they’re printed.”

D.Va’s mouth popped open an apologetic inch, revealing a mash of see-food, before she nodded. Jamie had to give her credit. She hardly ever forgot that he read like a feral kindergartner and never concern-trolled him about it—unlike pretty much everyone else in his life who wasn’t Roadhog or Tracer.

“You wanna go again?” she asked after swallowing. Her smile was extra toothy. “You can play _Roadhog_ this time.”

“Heh.” Junkrat looked at the character roster as the game’s irritating main-menu music looped again. He hated to admit it, but they actually did a pretty good job with Hog. From the way his short ponytail sat on his head to the way he lumbered into battle, they got it all right, and Jamie even had to admire the detailing on his mask. And if the techie geeks had made him a bit wider and _meatier_ than he actually was, well, who was Junkrat to criticize? Sometimes creative license wasn’t a garbage fire.

It was stupid, but having the avatar of the big guy breathing all heavy and hot while he looked at Jamie with those glassed-over brown eyes.... Well, it was kind of comforting. And a good reminder.

_I’m doing this for him._

Besides, it was Hana. Just Hana. The only other person in this group of drongos who didn’t think he was an idiot or a manwhore and treated him accordingly, because she _knew_. What it was like to be him—at least a bit—and what it was like to have had about twenty times as many brushes with death in your life as sexual encounters. It wasn’t fucked up and weird and “oh poor crazy Junkrat” to her.

_Just Hana._

_Roight. I can do this. I can do this._

“Funny you should say that,” he said, wincing internally as his voice pitched upward.

He selected Roadhog as the counter continued to tick downward.

“Why?” D.Va asked as she selected herself again, pressing the Left button on the controller to scroll through her character’s outfits. She scorned the jumpsuits—probably because she had to wear one almost like it in real life—and opted for the look that gave her chokecherry-red hair, a fuzzy, pink-and-black jacket, and a glittery, silver top, pants, and high-heeled boots. Her game-self looked, Jamie thought, like a K Pop idol from the 2010s. 

“What d’you say to someone after they’ve licked your boots? Or your lick theirs?” Junkrat asked after a short pause, during which their game commenced.

Hana didn’t even flinch as her character punched his with a mechanized fist. “You have, like, no filter. Has anyone ever told you that?”

Well, that was a subject he could talk about all day. “Tracer,” he said as he mashed buttons, “Hanzo, Symmetra, Reinhardt, Zarya, Zenyatta—two times yesterday!—Winston every time I see him….”

“Yeah.” D.Va’s mech shuddered as Roadhog scored a kick against one graceful leg. She retaliated with a combo that sent him sprawling. “Anyway, you didn’t google it?”

Jamie scoffed. “Google takes too long.”

“So get Scribby to read it off to you.” She shrugged as she punched Roadhog in the gut. “Doesn’t matter if you need the assistant. That’s what tech is for!”

“Still takes too long,” Jamie groused. “You can’t just tell me?”

“No,” Hana said with a roll of her eyes. “Why would I know something like that?”

“I mean, you and Bly—”

Hana’s mouth pulled into a hard little line as she one-to-three-four-five punched Roadhog on the screen, felling him permanently with whatever this bloody game called her combo attack. Hog let out a piggy squeal as he hit the ground, and D.Va the character shouted, “Noob!” 

“What about me and Bly?” she asked while this was all going on.

That voice was colder than Mei’s cryo gun, or whatever you called ’em, and Junkrat felt it freeze a hard line from his stomach all the way down to his wrists, where it spiked into icicles. 

No one at the base knew too much about the person D.Va had been flirting with online for months now, except for the following: they lived in Brooklyn, their official gender was “other,” their favorite game was also _StarCraft_ , and they weren’t a threat to Overwatch in any way. Oh, and D.Va had met them in the chatroom or whatever it was she kept running during missions, much to the big gorilla’s umbrage—he hated anyone having a bit of fun on the clock. So that’s why she was being testy about it, but Junkrat still had to ask, even if she hated him now.

Besides, it pissed him off how she kept the secret from him.

They were best mates, right? After him and Roadhog, that is.

They shouldn’t have secrets.

“Oh, c’mon, darl. You mean you two haven’t, you know, done some steamy chats? Role-plays? Whatever it is you do online?” he tried to joke, even though he knew his voice was getting all metallic and shrieky again.

Hana’s cheeks went as pink as her nail polish today. “I told you to stop asking me about them.”

“I’m your best friend, Hana!”

“And I said it’d be your business when I say it is! Not before.” She shook her head and slapped the console off. 

“Why won’t you help me?” Junkrat asked, the little spikes of ice genuinely hurting now.

D.Va’s face screwed up into a look that was half confusion, half irritation. “What’s going on? Why are you suddenly being weird again?”  
And if that wasn’t an even bigger twist to the guts. But Junkrat pressed on. He had more important things to think about right now than his pride.

_Like Hog not leaving me for someone that can really make him happy._

“I just need to know, okay?”

Hana folded her arms with a little hmph sound. “So when I don’t want to talk about my sex life, it’s a problem. But when you don’t want to talk about your shitty sex life, I need to back off.”

“What?” The little spikes of ice immediately turned hot and aimed right for his heart, which started double-timing in anger.

_You heard her. ‘Shitty sex life.’ Even she thinks you’re a loss in bed, mate._

The heat drained from Hana’s face, and her mouth pulled into an O. “Jamie, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

Junkrat tossed the controller to the floor and stood so fast, his metal leg squeaked in protest. “No,” he snapped, holding out a hand to shut her up, his face hot, like a bomb had just detonated in front of it. Maybe one had. “Fuck you,” he spat. “Fuck you for—for going there. Saying—I—I—”

_Gotta get out here._

Instead of throwing something, Jamie threw himself through the door and slammed it on Hana’s fucking apology.

Which she didn’t mean anyway, he decided as he hurried away from her room. 

So she hated him now. Fine. _Good_. He didn’t give a shit. 

He’d solve this problem on his own.

Right after he blew up a few things.


End file.
